


A Romantic Interlude Beside The Pacific

by twisting_vine_x



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Discussion of feelings, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisting_vine_x/pseuds/twisting_vine_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Dean’s little brother has his soul back, it’s time to fix things with a certain angel.</p><p>(A/N: Takes place immediately after ‘Like a Virgin’).</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Romantic Interlude Beside The Pacific

Two days after their conversation with Bobby about opening Purgatory, Dean finds himself sitting on the hood of his baby, his feet resting against the twelve-pack he’s got situated on the ground beside him. The bottle in his hand is cold and soothing, the liquid sliding down his throat to join the beer already mixed into his blood stream, and Dean takes a moment to just lie back against the hood and stare at the stars.

His little brother has his soul back.

Dean can feel his lips stretch into an honest grin, his face almost hurting from using muscles he’d nearly forgotten how to use. Death’s solution may not have been perfect, and there may yet be hell to pay in the future, and Purgatory might still get cracked open by a dragon, and it’s going to be a long damn time before Bobby is able to look Sam in the eye –

But for now, Dean simply doesn’t care. Because while there’s no way this small bubble of happiness can last, his brother’s inside right now, guiltily going over Bobby’s kitchen with a bucket of apologetic soap while the older hunter is out, and the image of Sam wearing an apron and soap suds is something that Dean’s going to treasure for the rest of his life.

“Son of a bitch.” 

He’s still grinning when he sits up to finish his beer, before dropping the bottle to the cold ground, and taking a moment to just breathe. Purgatory is going to smash open soon, if they can’t figure out a way to stop it – but for now, in this isolated moment, Dean is just going to cling to the tentative happiness that’s running through his veins, even if the sensation is as foreign as the act of smiling.

“Dean?”

His little brother’s standing in the doorway, looking horribly uncomfortable with a mop in his hands, and Dean doesn't have even the slightest chance of stopping his laugh. 

“Sorry, Sammy. You’re on your own. I’ll kill monsters for you, but there’s no way I’m cleaning Bobby’s sink.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“Jerk.”

“Will you at least help me find some goddamn sponges?”

Sammy’s face is furrowed with unhappiness, his eyes going for their full-on kicked puppy look, and there’s a strand of soap stuck to his hair, just visible in the fading sunlight of evening. Suddenly, the sight of him looking so human is enough to make Dean choke back a decidedly sentimental itch in the back of his throat, and he clears his throat before reaching for another beer.

“I’ll be back in a bit, promise. There’s something I gotta do first.”

He can almost hear Sam rolling his eyes as he goes back in the house, and Dean takes a steadying breath, suddenly unable to deal with the fact that Sam’s so desperate to square things up with Bobby that he’s actually cleaning the man’s kitchen. It’s funny, yes, the image of Sam in an apron – but the cause behind this sudden cleaning endeavor is not nearly as humorous, no matter how much Dean might be trying to hold on to the happy aspects of this moment.

And then there’s Purgatory.

“Goddammit.”

His voice is suddenly a growl, and Dean gets to his feet and turns away from the house, not wanting to think about it tonight. Tonight, he wants to drink his beer, and spend time with his brother, and figure out what kind of fruit basket Death would like, and – 

“Ah, fuck this.”

He mutters it halfheartedly as he turns his eyes up to the sky, knowing that Castiel might be busy, but realizing that there’s no putting this off any longer. In addition to putting together that fruit basket, Dean desperately needs to try to fix things with a certain angel – because as much as he might want to punch Castiel right now, he knows that he’s not exactly innocent in the fucked up train wreck that has become their relationship.

“Cas.”

Maybe it's the beer in his veins, but it's somehow easy to raise his eyes upwards and murmur that single syllable, for once not asking for something. In the past, it's always been him needing something, pleading for help, dragging Castiel out of Heaven, pulling him down into the dirt with the other mud monkeys –

And the few times Castiel has asked him for anything, Dean has fought him every inch of the way. The thought makes his stomach roll a bit, and as he breathes deep as he tells himself to not chicken out now.

“Cas, come on, man. Can you hear me?”

The bitter reprimanded earlier had hurt, and not just because Castiel had been so furious with him for sticking Sam’s soul back into his body – but more because Castiel should have known that Dean had been given no choice in the matter. Of all the creatures in the whole damn universe, Castiel should have known that Dean would never kill his little brother, and neither would he never leave his brother’s soul to rot in hell –

So what options had Dean been left with? Not many, and none of them pleasant. Death had come through in ways that Dean had never expected, and he still didn’t know how he felt about owing his life – and his brother’s life – to the very being that would someday take their lives away from them.

 _If you’d wanted to kill Sam, you should have done it outright._

Dean ground his teeth together, all vestiges of a good mood slipping away as the remembered words rang in his ears. He tried to remember how to breathe steadily, knowing that the only way they would be able to have this conversation is if they didn’t start hitting each other the minute Castiel flapped into existence.

“Look, I know you're busy, but if you can spare a moment –”

“What would you like now?”

Dean only realizes he's closed his eyes when they fly back open, and Castiel is standing in front of him, lips a thin line and his eyes flashing in a decidedly un-angelic manner. Dean swallows hard, and shrugs helplessly when he’s unable to find the right words, his heart racing unpleasantly. 

“Dean.”

Castiel is practically vibrating – which, for him, means a tension that makes it look like he's been frozen in place – and Dean can hear the warning in his voice, the, _Get to the point, Dean, so I can continue doing important angel things._

“I'm sorry to pull you down here –”

“I did not know that Sam did not remember the last year and a half. If you had simply informed me of this, then I would have never told him in the first place.”

He has a very good point there, and the righteous anger in his voice is making it clear that Dean should have just damn well told him what was going on. Dean swallows back the surge of guilt, trying to figure out how Castiel could have found out that Sam had tricked him. “How did you –”

“Sam called me again, possibly because he felt guilty about his earlier manipulation. It is quite possible that I may lose this fight in Heaven, if you two do not stop distracting me whenever you happen to deem my presence here convenient.”

Clipped, sharp, and not at all the consummate emotionless angel Castiel had probably been aiming for. Dean can't stop himself from stepping forward, the beer making his legs a little heavy, as he tries to find words and Castiel just keeps fucking staring at him.

“I didn't call you about Sam.”

“Then why am I here? I have more pressing –”

“I'm sorry.”

He blurts out the two words before he can lose his nerve, and saying it out loud makes him ache with vulnerability, his hands twisting against his jeans as he firmly sets his eyesight somewhere over Castiel's shoulder. He doesn't think he can meet Castiel's all-knowing eyes right now, not when he feels like he’s he's about to spill his stupid human heart.

“You are – sorry?”

The confusion there is obvious. Dean still can't look at Cas, and he has this awful feeling that he may have actually just scuffed his toe in the dirt.

“Yeah. For, um – for my part in how fucked up the last year was. And for acting like I don't give a damn about your war.”

“Do you?”

It cuts through him with all the precious of a scalpel, and when he manages to raise his eyes Castiel is full-out glaring at him, eyes way too blue in the dimly lit parking lot. Dean feels anger race across his skin, and he struggles to keep his voice even, trying to remind himself that they’ll never fix their fucked up situation if this descends into a fist fight.

“Dammit, Cas, of course I do. Maybe you somehow missed it, but I’ve been a little distracted –”

“Even as we speak, Heaven is still in anarchy, and you have called me away from my fight to offer condolences for your actions. Could this not have waited until the next time I was on Earth? Or do your needs still always come before mine?”

His mouth dry at the heat in Castiel's voice, Dean suddenly realizes that there's not enough beer in the world to deal with this conversation. Castiel, if possible, looks even angrier than he did when Dean first called him down, and Dean has the ridiculous urge to take a step backwards, even as his hands curl into fists at his sides.

“You feathery son of a –”

“I cannot deal with this now.” Castiel suddenly moves forward, sending Dean into a flurry of panic at the thought of those hands landing on him – and when two fingers simply touch the hood of his baby, the contact is almost as personal. “I have put a temporary tracking signature on your car. When I have time, I will find you. Do not call me unless you need me.”

“Dammit, Cas –”

Castiel is already gone, a flutter of wings and the sensation of gentle wind. Feeling even worse about himself, Dean squeezes his eyes shut and grinds his teeth together, reminding himself that this is why he never offers apologies. More often than not, they just get thrown back into his face, leaving everyone even angrier afterward.

“Dean.”

The large hand that descends on his shoulder helps to ground him, and Dean lets his eyes slide shut for a second. When he turns back to face Sam, the human concern on his expression is enough to make Dean’s anger fade as quickly as it had come.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to spy.” Sam is looking guilty, and Dean wonders if he’ll ever get sick of seeing emotion on his big lovable face. “I came outside to ask where the broom was, and Cas –”

“Cas is being a dick.”

Dean means it to come out with more anger than hurt, his eyes sliding to the ground at the rough catch to his voice, and then he jumps when big arms wrap around him, pulling him into a massive Sam-sized bear hug. Dean puts up a token resistance for a few seconds, cursing halfheartedly and trying to struggle free, but he gives up as soon as he hears Sam laugh, and the arms tighten around him with unforgiving strength.

“I don’t envy either of you. You make it impossible for people to like you, and Cas makes it easy for people to want to punch him. He probably isn’t the easiest guy to be head over heels for.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Dean can feel himself smothering a grin against Sam’s shoulder, a sensation of tentative peace sweeping through him, even as he hates himself for how unbelievably girly this entire stupid moment is. “And don’t say head over heels.”

“It offends your manly pride?”

“Yes. Now get the hell off me.”

Sam squeezes him for a second longer before stepping away, and even if neither of them can look at each other for a second, it still doesn’t wipe the grin from Dean’s face. He and Sammy may never be what anyone would consider functional, but for all the shit they’ve been through, the fact that they’re even standing here together is rather astounding. 

“Come on. There’s more beer in the fridge.”

Sammy is smiling again, and he’s still wearing that damn apron, with a strand of soap still stuck to the messy mop of hair on his head. His heart feeling better than it has in months, Dean’s grin widens as he follows his little brother into the house, wondering if he could maybe sacrifice his manly pride just a little bit further, and find some of those damn sponges.

\- - -

“Dean.”

The giant hand on his shoulder is shaking him awake, dragging him from a nightmare, pulling him free of Alistair's terrifying explanations of just where to cut. Dean can hear himself gasping for air as he sits up, and Sammy is staring at him with such obvious concern that Dean feels warm all the way to his toes, even as his mind struggles to claw its way back from the hell it had just been reliving. 

“You okay?”

There’s something wary to Sam’s voice, as though they both know all too well that Dean will never be okay with what happened in Hell, and Dean finds himself desperately hoping that the wall in Sammy’s mind never comes tumbling back down. Whatever memories Sam has hidden in there, if Castiel had said that his soul felt like it’d been skinned alive, like it had been tortured down to the raw nerve –

“Fuck.”

Dean digs his fingers into Sam’s arm, suddenly terrified on his little brother’s behalf, and Sam sighs softly as he helps Dean sit up. He then pulls away, apparently remembering the many times that he had woken Dean up from a nightmare, only to have him curse at Sammy and stomp off in search for the nearest whiskey bottle.

“Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No, Sammy, I’m fine –”

“Dean.”

Castiel is suddenly in the middle of the room, making this an entire party of awkwardness, as all three of them take a moment to stare at each other. When Sam glances at Dean, and then hesitantly back to the angel, Dean wishes desperately for a drink, knowing that this is never going to go well.

“Cas, hey.” Again with the wary expression, as Sam shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “Is something wrong? How did you find us?”

“I need to speak to your brother.”

When Castiel doesn’t say another word, his eyes fixed on Sam in an obvious glare, Sam’s eyes drop to the floor, his lingering guilt obvious in the tight stance of his entire body. Holding back a tired groan, Dean swings his legs over the side of the bed, doesn't quite manage to look at Cas, and slowly climbs to his feet, wishing he was a bit more awake for this.

“Dean.” Castiel suddenly sounds exhausted, and Dean's eyes snap up, wondering how the hell he was able to pick that out, when Castiel's become so good at playing the role of emotionless dick. “Would you follow me outside, please.”

Dean does so without a word, and when the motel door swings shut behind them, he tries to plaster on a bit of a pained smile, aiming for something other than the anger that's still been eating him up for days. Ever since the night they had scrubbed the hell out of Bobby’s kitchen, Dean’s been getting progressively more uneasy, and this failed trip to Bobby’s friend’s place in search of information on Purgatory hasn’t done anything for his nerves. He hates not knowing what’s going on, especially when it could be something this important.

“Hey, Cas. This a better time, hmm?”

“I would not be here if it wasn't.”

Castiel is still doing that tense statue thing, as though being away from his war is more than he can truly spare, despite what he might be saying about this being a better time. Dean licks his lips nervously, and wonders why he ever though that having this conversation was a good idea. A less desperate man would have probably let their relationship fizzle away completely, instead of poking and prodding at it, as though he and Cas were a wound that had never healed correctly.

“Last time, you wished to speak to me. What did you wish to say?”

Dean opens his mouth, wanting to come up with things like _thank you_ and _I'm so sorry_ and _you’re a giant unfeeling dick_ – and then his throat completely closes up. He's never been good with words – that's Sammy's forte, not his – and he can't seem to work his tongue around what he wants to say, not when he’s practically vibrating with a mixture of anger and guilt. 

“Dean?”

“I don't know if I can do this sober.”

He tries for a somewhat self-deprecating smile, but he thinks it comes out as more like self-loathing. Castiel's lips press together, as though he's thinking about smearing Dean against a wall again, maybe hoping to smash out some of his stupidity –

And then he's gone. Dean feels like he's been punched in the ribs.

“Son of a bitch!”

He puts his fist into the wooden balcony banister before he even thinks about it, and it's a bad sign that it takes several seconds for the pain to register. As he looks down at the splinters and blood, and as Sammy opens the door to stare at him, Dean wonders how the hell this ever became his life.

“Dean?”

“I'm fine.”

Sam is looking all concerned again, while Dean sounds to his own ears like he's been crying. The thought alone is enough to make his throat tickle unpleasantly, and he takes a deep breath before he turns back towards Sam, looking away from the empty balcony where Castiel had just been standing –

“Come with me.”

The voice behind him makes him jump in a circle. His heart gets lodged in his throat when Castiel glares at him, all icy blue eyes and stupid trench coat, with what looks like a 12-pack tucked under his arm.

“Dude.” Dean doesn't know why his voice is so scratchy – why he seems to be choking on gratitude, instead of laughing at the image Cas presents. “Did you really just rob –”

“Shut up, Dean.” Two warm fingers press against his forehead, and Dean can't help but close his eyes, suddenly unable to look at Castiel from this close. “Sam, you can go back inside. I will return your brother later.”

They're gone before Sam can even respond, and when Dean hits solid ground again, he's on the edge of a towering cliff, and the air around them is warm. There's a breeze, it's sunset across the entire horizon, and the water before them seems to stretch on for eternity. The only thing that spoils the cliché date image is the motherfucking angel of the lord who's still holding a box of beer under his arm, glaring at Dean as though he expects Dean to make some stupid comment.

“I enjoy the ocean. Is this acceptable?”

Unable to speak, Dean manages a shaky nod, and he stares as Castiel sits down cross-legged on the grass, facing out towards the beautiful water. After an incredulous moment, Dean follows suit, and he swallows hard as a boulder suddenly appears behind them, giving them both something to lean against.

“This is, uh – nice.”

“I thought this location might be conducive to easing your mind. Motel parking lots seem to exude a generally depressing sentiment.”

Dean doesn't even know how to respond to that – since when do warrior angels spirit away their charges to the ocean, just in the interests of making them a bit happier? He's still struggling for words when fingers brush against his own bloodied ones, and he can't stop himself from jumping, banging his funny bone against the elbow behind them.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Relax, Dean.” Castiel's voice sounds almost amused, though his expression hasn't changed. “Please do not hurt yourself further.”

Dean only realizes he's holding his breath when his lungs start to hurt. The skin on his fingers is suddenly whole again, blood and splinters cleaned away with only a touch, and he spends half a second panicking about how badly he wants to curl his fingers into Castiel's, before the touch is gone completely, and Castiel's hands are folded in his lap.

There's a moment of awkward silence, as Castiel just stares out across the ocean, and Dean tries to find the words he needs. His skin is tingling, and he thinks he can feel an echo of the sensation in his shoulder, as though his body remembers that touch, and will never let him forget that he owes his freedom to the being sitting beside him.

“Uh, thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

Another excruciating silence, as the wind brushes gently against them, and the sun sinks a little lower. Dean feels like he's strung out a hundred different ways, trying to figure out what the hell they are doing here, and what Castiel hopes to get out of this interlude.

“May I ask what exactly happened in the fifteen seconds I was gone?”

Dean bites back a curse as he feels a tell-tale flush spread across his cheeks. “It doesn't matter.”

Castiel turns to look at him, raising his eyebrows slightly, and the heat on Dean's cheeks gets a little warmer. “Anything that hurts you is my concern.”

“Didn’t seem much like that over the last year.”

He regrets the words the second they’re out, but there’s something liberating about the freedom that comes from letting loose some of his venom, even if Castiel is freezing into a statue again. Those blue eyes seem to cut right through him, before Castiel turns away to look out over the ocean, his lips pressed together in a thin line of unhappiness, and Dean finds himself wishing they could just have another goddamn punching match and get this over with.

“You still haven’t told me how you harmed yourself.”

The clipped words sound like they’ve been ground out between Castiel’s teeth, and though Dean wants to respond with a growl of his own, he settles for a reckless grin instead, knowing that it will only piss Castiel off more. “I punched the balcony.”

“Why were you compelled to do that?”

“I thought I'd pissed you off again, and you'd flapped back up to Heaven.”

“My temporary absence caused you to harm yourself?”

“Jesus, don't put it like that. It sounds so much stupider that way.”

He can hear the sudden embarrassment in his voice, and when he chances a glance at Castiel, the angel is frowning at him again, as though he hasn't already seen into Dean's soul, and doesn't already know that self-destruction and Dean have long been old friends. 

“I do not believe there is any way to make it not sound stupid, Dean.”

“Yeah, can we please change the conversation?”

“You would prefer to talk about how badly you feel for being less than supportive of my role in Heaven's civil war?”

“Not really.”

“Then what would you like to talk about?”

Still not a flicker of emotion across Castiel's face, beyond the icy press of lips and hard eyes that have become his signature expression, and Dean feels a thrill of anger shoot through his gut at that mask. He bites down a scathing curse, closes his eyes and rests his head back against the rock, trying to focus on the soothing sensation of warm wind.

“Dean?”

Dean should have known he wouldn't be allowed to just sit in peace. He opens his eyes and reluctantly turns his head, catching his breath when the angel turns to meet his eyes. Their faces are much too close, he can almost feel Castiel's breath on his skin, and Dean feels his heart begin to beat a little too fast.

“What the hell are we doing here, Cas? I wanted a talk, or maybe a fight – not some romantic interlude beside the Pacific. Don't you have to be upstairs making nice with the other angels?”

“When I appropriated your beer, I also informed Joshua of my location. We seem to have entered a temporary lull, at least until Raphael launches another attack.”

It boggles Dean's mind, the idea of a bunch of angels having a fistfight up in the clouds, and he can't stop a frown, trying to picture such a thing. “Your true form is the size of the Chrysler Building?”

“Yes.”

“So do you giants just fly around up there and smite the crap out of each other?”

“Something like that.”

Castiel is looking out at the water again, his eyes distant. This conversation is far too much like pulling teeth, and Dean resists the urge to grit his own together, words stuck on the tip on his tongue, wanting to say, _I'm trying, goddammit, so why won't you talk to me, and explain what the hell's going on in your little world?_

“And some of our battles have happened on Earth.”

Dean blinks. That's somewhat unexpected – both that Castiel is willingly volunteering information, and that the angels seem to be taking their fight back to Dean's planet.

“What, the angels haven't got their fill of doing damage down here?”

“Raphael has had an unfortunate tendency of following me around, hoping to catch me when I'm alone.”

A chill goes down Dean's spine, and the deserted cliff seems a lot more ominous. “So, like... now?”

“I would not let anything happen to you.”

“I wasn’t worrying about me.” 

“How gracious of you.”

The words could be taken for angelic sarcasm, if not for the tiniest hint of a smile that’s pulling at Castiel’s lips, and Dean hears himself trying to stumble through an explanation, hating that his anger towards the angel is being swept away by the gentle curve to those soft lips. “I mean, it’s just that –”

“Raphael has yet to find a new vessel. It will be difficult for him to harm either of us here until he does so.”

“And it's kosher for you to just chill here for a while?”

Dean still can't quite believe it, and when Castiel gives a slight shrug, Dean determinedly does not analyze how such a human gesture makes something burn low in his gut. It's been too long since he's seen Castiel act as something more than a perfect soldier, and Dean is only realizing just how much he's missed this.

“Would you like a beer now?”

The utterly surrealistic nature of the entire situation suddenly makes Dean snort, unexpected humour bubbling up through his chest, an all-too-alien sensation given the events of the last few years. When Castiel tilts his head in obvious confusion, Dean can't stop a somewhat pained grin, hoping desperately for a moment of peace between them, as the gentle touch of wind brushes against his skin.

“Come on, Cas. You've gotta admit – this is pretty funny.”

Expecting to have to explain his illogical human reaction, Dean is surprised to see the corners of Castiel's lips turn up again. “I suppose.”

“You suppose? Dude, you're a freakin' angel, and you're trying to feed me beer on the side of cliff.”

“True.”

Dean feels lighter than he has in months, as Castiel's eyes crinkle around edges – just a hint of humour as his lips creep up a bit further, but it's the happiest Dean has seen him since he was whammied by Famine and fell in love with cheeseburgers. Dean wants to grin and rest his head back against the boulder, but then he would miss that smile on that stubbly face.

“Admit it. You've missed this.”

“It would be a lie to say I haven't.”

“Is there no way you can get away from Heaven a little more often?”

“Do you truly begrudge me my war that much?”

Castiel’s face has become abruptly emotionless again, and Dean wants to bite off his own tongue, wondering if they’re ever going to be able to have a conversation without somehow hurting each other in the process. “Dammit, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what –”

“I just don’t want you to wear yourself out, alright?” When Castiel just continues to stare at him, as though it’s the first time he’s ever considered the prospect, Dean wonders how Castiel hasn’t yet managed to get himself killed again. “It’s just, you look like hell half the time, and you’re not indestructible.”

“I look like hell?”

“Dammit, man, it’s an expression –”

“I am well aware of that. I simply did not know that you continue to take note of my physical appearance.” 

As the words settle around them, Dean feels his blood run hot in his veins, only to be followed by a chill that seems to sweep from his neck to his toes. He tries to remember how to breathe, but Castiel has turned to stare at him again, his head resting against the rock behind them, and Dean suddenly cannot find any words.

“Dean.”

Dean is never going to get used to the way Castiel says his name, like he’s still something precious, despite the hell they’ve put each other through over the last few years. He’s about to aim for some smart ass comment when he sees something in Castiel’s eyes that he doesn’t think he’s seen in awhile, something that Castiel has barely demonstrated since he got supercharged into some turbo strong angel –

Dean sucks in a breath, trying to remember how to breathe. Now that he’s not avoiding Castiel’s eyes, he can see the nervousness that Castiel is desperately trying to hide, and it makes his heart rate climb to an almost painful speed.

“Dean.”

Dean only realizes he’s closed his eyes when Castiel murmurs his name again, and there’s a very hesitant brush of fingers across his own. The simple touch sends heat streaking across his entire body, and Dean can’t believe the shaky exhale that slides from his mouth, as every inch of his being yearns to be closer to the creature sitting beside him. 

“Based on our interactions over the last year, I had assumed that the romantic aspect of our relationship had been permanently terminated. We have not been very kind to each other.”

Dean tries to come up with a way to argue that, and fails. Just thinking about it is enough to make his skin begin to burn again, though this time the anger is tinted with something even more primal, something that makes him ache to dig his fingers into Castiel’s skin and never let go.

“Also, Dean, I wish to tell you –” Castiel pauses, as his warm fingers slide across his skin, the contact slow and soft, and Dean wonders if it’s possible for his nerves to get drawn any tighter. “I am – I am sorry, too. For what I said earlier, about Sam – and sorry that I didn’t believe that you would be able to find a solution –”

“You should have known me better than that.” Dean’s voice is a dirty rasp as he pulls his hand away and climbs to his feet, turning his back to the angel still sitting in the dirt, and biting down the sudden moisture that wants to pool on the edges of his eyes. “You should have known that – dammit, I couldn’t leave Sam down there. You should have helped me, not fought me on everything.”

“I believed I was acting in Sam's best interests.”

“But you were wrong!” Dean is suddenly doing his best to keep from yelling, his fingers balled into fists at his sides, and his eyes still fixed on the ocean waves. “Dammit, Cas, I needed you!”

“And if Sam’s soul had destroyed him? If I had helped you to get that mutilated thing back inside him, and that had been the destruction of your brother?”

Dean’s stomach churns at the thought, and he determinedly stares out over the ocean, having no idea of how to answer that question. The water in front of him is blurring, and Dean rubs a hand across his eyes, even as he hears soft movement behind him, as Castiel also climbs to his feet.

“I did what I believed to be right.” Castiel’s voice is low and aching, and Dean goes still at the regret he can hear hidden in the soft words. “As with several other events in our past, it was not what you believed to be right. I am sorry for the conflict this has wrought between us.”

“Cas –”

Five fingers curl softly around his shoulder, and the hand print branded into his skin flares to life, a reminder of everything that he and Castiel have been through together. The flash of sensation has always been enough to make Dean’s knees shake, and this time is no exception.

“Just as when I believed that Paradise was the best option for this Earth, and when I lost faith in our ability to kill the Devil – Dean, you have proved me wrong, time and again, and I should have known that you would find a solution to this problem.”

Dean hesitates for a moment longer, until Castiel’s light fingers tighten against his shoulder – and then Dean finally lets himself lean back, his eyes slipping shut as strong arms slide around him, pulling him close to a solid body. He can feel his heart bang against his ribs as he finally lets himself let go, finally gives up a little of the fight that keeps him going, and when Castiel’s face presses into the side of his neck, Dean has to keep his eyes squeezed shut for fear of seeing the scenery in front of him become a wall of liquid.

“Cas.”

Then he stops trying for words, because Castiel is murmuring his name and squeezing him tighter, sighing softly against the sensitive skin of his neck. Hesitantly, Dean raises his hands to find the angel’s steady grip, and as their fingers curl together against the flat of his chest, Dean keeps his eyes closed and concentrates on breathing, his heart slamming against their combined skin.

“Cas.” When Dean tries for words again, he has to take a moment to clear his throat, almost dizzy with the feeling of Castiel’s body pressed up against his own. “This doesn’t fix everything. You –”

“I never should have implied that you had intended to kill your brother.”

“No, dammit, you shouldn’t have –”

“But you should not dismiss my needs. Perhaps the concept of an angelic civil war may not seem as immediate to you as the loss of your brother’s soul, but if I lose this war, then it will be the end of this Earth, just as surely as Paradise would have been.”

Dean can’t find a response to that, and he can hear the obvious pain in Castiel’s voice, so Dean instead settles for doing what he does best. His fingers tingling from where they’re pressed against Castiel’s warm skin, Dean manages to turn around in Castiel’s arms, his chest hitching at the way the fading sunlight is playing against Castiel’s face.

“Dean?”

Castiel sounds incredibly hesitant, for all that his hands have begun to slide along the planes of Dean’s back, strong fingers digging into the soft fabric there. Trying not to melt at the need in those blue eyes, Dean tries for a genuine smile, his heart racing far too quickly when the corners of Castiel’s lips turn up, and a smidgen of all-too-human laugh lines crinkle at the edges of Castiel’s eyes.

“You got anywhere you need to be for an hour?”

Castiel’s mouth drops open slightly as he shakes his head, his fingers tightening against Dean’s back, and that’s really all the unspoken permission that Dean needs. Curling his fingers into the front of Castiel’s trench coat, he begins to walk them backwards, moving carefully across the uneven ground, and when Castiel’s back hits the boulder they’d been leaning against, Dean feels heat shoot from his ankles to his neck.

“Dean.”

There’s a breathless catch to the single syllable, Castiel’s voice dropping to something even lower than his already obscene normal rasp, and Dean leans in to taste his name on the angel’s lips, his knees going even shakier when Castiel responds with an unrestrained moan. The sound alone is enough to make Dean ache from the inside out, and he does his best to nip and lick his way into and around Castiel’s soft lips, not stopping until he can feel Castiel’s panting breaths begin to come even shorter, his solid chest already heaving against Dean’s.

“Dean.”

It’s already a rough mutter, and oh, god, Dean has missed the way Castiel reacts to human sensation – the way he always just gives himself to it, and isn’t constrained by any of those stupid rules that keep people from letting go the way they want to. There’s none of that with Castiel, and when Dean feels rough teeth bite down against his lower lip, it’s suddenly far beyond the point where clothing should have been coming off, and he tightens his grip in Castiel’s trench coat.

“Will anyone see us here? Can you hide –”

“Already done.”

Dean groans and drags the trench coat from Castiel’s body, leaving the angel in his clean white shirt and suit pants, that ridiculous tie dangling there like a beacon. He wants to take his time, to savour the fact that they’re somehow here again, but his need is like a slow burn that’s flared to forest fire status, and he finds himself stripping Castiel without anything that resembles finesse.

There’s a shaky laugh at his lips, and then Castiel is sliding his fingers underneath the bottom of Dean’s shirt, dragging them along his stomach as he pulls the shirt over Dean’s head, forcing the hunter to break contact with Castiel’s lips for a moment. Dean can’t believe the frustrated noise he makes as he’s pushed backwards, but then his shirt is on the ground, and Castiel’s is hanging on by one stubborn button, and the sight is enough to make Dean groan again.

“Gotta get rid of that tie.”

He sounds far too breathless to his own ears, and he doesn’t like the way his hands are unsteady as he slides the tie from around Castiel’s neck and undoes the last button of his shirt, letting both flutter to the ground, and leaving both men in just their pants. Castiel is rubbing his body against Dean’s in an intoxicating slide of skin, his fancy suit pants somehow obscene against the hard press of Dean’s jeans, and Dean fights the ridiculous urge to rut up against Castiel’s thigh like a horny animal.

“Pants, Dean. Pants.”

Castiel’s hands are scrambling down between them to find the buttons of Dean’s jeans, his normally clever fingers struggling with the zipper of Dean’s fly, and while Dean has always thought that monosyllables were flattering, they’re practically incinerating coming from Castiel. He hears himself groaning again as Castiel’s fingers brush against his cock, their tips siding through his jeans buttons to stroke against the dampness of his underwear, and then Dean’s legs are moving without his prior consent, taking him to his knees on the damp ground.

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice is a confused and breathless rasp, his fingers gently curling into the strands of Dean’s hair, as Dean begins to struggle with the fastens of Castiel’s pants. “You don’t have to, I wanted to touch you –”

“You will.” Dean can feel his skin flushing with embarrassment as he yanks Castiel’s pants down to his ankles, suddenly unable to believe that he’s doing this in the wide open, by the side of an ocean. “Just – let me, for a minute.”

“But –”

“Jesus fuck, you need to learn when to stop arguing.”

Dean can almost feel his blood boiling in his veins as he leans forward to bury his face into the tented heat of Castiel’s underwear, and when there’s a breathless stream of Enochian from above him, it’s enough to make Dean very happy he’s already on his knees. After pressing a hand against his own aching cock just for a second, trying to relieve some of the pressure, he slides his hands up Castiel’s long legs to his ridiculously appealing hip bones, digging his fingers into the flawless skin and raising his eyes to meet the blue ones above him.

“Stay.”

When Castiel just nods somewhat frantically, a delicious flush spreading from his cheeks to his collarbone, Dean feels a warmth in his chest that has little to do with lust, and everything to do with the unbelievable extent to which he needs this angel in his life. Closing his eyes to force back the thought, Dean slowly drags his lips across the damp fabric in front of him, tracing his tongue along the press of Castiel’s cock, trying to get a taste of him through the material.

“Dean – please –”

If the way Castiel is clutching his hair is any indication, he’s not exactly in the mood to be teased, but Dean can’t help himself from drawing things out for a moment longer, curling his mouth gently around the head of Castiel’s cock, loving the way he can feel it pulsing through the saliva-soaked material. Part of him can’t believe they’re doing this again, that he’s allowed to touch - but a bigger part of him, the part that’s been saying screw rules and screw fate and screw destiny since nearly the day he was born, is too distracted by the way Castiel’s shaking underneath him, despite that they haven’t even gotten all of their clothes off yet.

“Dean.”

There’s a gentle tug to his hair, and Dean smirks as he drags his teeth along Castiel’s thigh in retaliation, before slipping his fingers into Castiel’s underwear and sliding them down his legs, his body catching fire as he helps Castiel to kick them off. Then he’s kneeling at the feet of a naked angel, while Castiel simply stares down at him, that angelic mask of his cracking further with each passing second, and Dean’s suddenly swamped with something much bigger then arousal.

“Shit,” he mutters, and then suddenly can’t stand to have Castiel’s mouth so far away, not when it’s been almost two years since they did this. He bites down on the urge to slide back to his feet again, figuring that would make him the biggest tease of the entire millennium, and instead leans forward to rake his teeth along Castiel’s thigh, before teasing him with the tiniest hint of tongue against his cock, loving the way the angel’s fingers are getting increasingly desperate in his hair. 

“Dean. I – wish the same. Get up here, please, I want –”

Dean barely has time to be startled before Castiel has yanked him to his feet and slammed their lips back together, and although Dean tries to voice a protest at his thoughts being invaded, Castiel is already pushing Dean down onto the ground, and tearing off his jeans with startling haste, all while never letting an inch of space come between their lips.

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean hears himself gasp against the angel’s mouth, for even as his heart and body are fully on board with the program, there’s still something annoying about the ease in which Castiel can pick his needs out of nothingness. “What have I told you about reading my mind?”

“It would be easier,” Castiel growls in response, pulling back long enough to lift Dean’s legs like he’s weightless, underwear and jeans yanked off his body with absolutely no finesse, “If you would not think so loudly. I do not wish to concentrate on keeping full control of my mental capacities at this time.”

“You’re saying I make you lose your mind?”

“Smug doesn’t become you.”

“I think it –”

A warm hand closes around his cock, and Dean stops trying to talk, feeling that touch to the roots of his hair, as Castiel tightens his grip slightly and drags his fingers at an agonizingly slow pace. Dean forces himself to keep his eyes open, not wanting to miss a minute of Castiel all flushed and sweaty, hair pointing in every direction, and those long fingers wrapped around Dean’s cock with a sureness that shows he hasn’t forgotten a damn thing that Dean once taught him.

“Smug isn’t a good look for you, Dean. This is.”

And because Castiel always treats sex like he’s finally discovered the true meaning of heaven, there’s an intoxicating gleam to his eyes that says he isn’t just talking about Dean’s sweaty hair, or his wide eyes, or the curve to his lips, or the way his cock is warm and hard in Castiel’s hand.

No, he’s talking about the way Dean trusts him enough to do this, to lie here on a cliff edge and let Castiel take him apart, and it’s been so long since Dean’s had that look directed at him, he barely remembers how he ever dealt with it.

Swallowing hard, Dean watches in silence as Castiel raises a hand to his mouth, slides his tongue across his palm – looking the very antithesis of what an angel should be – and then brings his fingers back around Dean’s cock. The easier slide of skin on skin slams Dean’s eyes shut as his head hits the grass, and all he can feel is those warm fingers around him, as Castiel strokes with an infuriatingly slowly pace, and starts to leave teeth marks against his collarbone.

“Fucking vampire,” Dean manages to gasp out, his heart racing even faster when he feels Castiel’s lips turn up against his shoulder. Then Dean gives up on speaking when Castiel tightens his fingers around his cock, and increases his pace to something that’s still slow enough to be torturous, with his thumb drawing lines of sensation along the bottom of his cock. Dean feels his own fingers slide down to curl into the grass below, and he lets out a yelp when Castiel digs his teeth in again, just as he gently squeezes his hand around Dean’s cock.

“I enjoy marking you.”

“Kinky – possessive bastard –”

“It has been far too long since I had you like this.”

“So stop playing with me and do something about it.”

When Castiel’s hand actually stops, Dean finds back an instinctive groan of happiness, before he notices the way Castiel is looking at him, those blue eyes gone dark with something Dean can barely stand to look at. After everything they’ve been through, after everything they’ve put each other through – Castiel is still looking at him as though he’s found what he’s been missing for millennium, and it’s enough to make Dean’s stomach squirm unpleasantly.

“Cas?”

Castiel uncurls his fingers from Dean’s cock and leans forward to press their foreheads together for a second, and Dean watches from the unnervingly close distance as those blue eyes slide shut. It takes Dean about five seconds to realize that they’re having one of those moments – that in the middle of sex, Castiel has stopped to have a goddamn _moment_ on top of Dean, reacquainting himself with whatever human thing he’s feeling now, which makes him the unquestioned king of bad timing – and Dean feels something in his chest that reeks of panic. He curls a leg around Castiel’s waist, trying to pull him closer – trying to not make this into something sappy and horribly emotion-ridden, even if he thinks some buried part of him may be craving something dangerously close to that.

“C’mon, Cas, what’s the hold up?”

There’s a soft sigh against his lips, and Dean finally gives up on keeping his eyes open, unable to deal with trying to stare at Castiel from such a close distance. Suddenly, Castiel lets the full length of his body lie against Dean’s body, crowding him into the ground as his cock burns a brand into Dean’s skin, and Dean flushes from the sudden pressure against his own cock, fighting the urge to thrust up against a body he has no hope of moving.

“Dean.”

And then Castiel stops speaking again, letting the silence between them drag. Dean is just about to tear his own hair out, when he feels a kiss against his forehead, and Castiel is pulling back far enough to stare down at him, those damn eyes doing a good job of turning him inside out.

“Something the matter?”

He’s trying for cocky, but it comes out a lot more anxious than he would have liked, and he knows that Castiel hears the nervousness he’s suddenly trying to hide.

“Nothing is the matter, Dean. I am simply realizing – not for the first time – that you are precious to me. I think I may have known it from the moment my soul touched yours, even if I did not understand what I was feeling.”

And because this is Castiel, he lays it all out there, with just a few inches between their eyes, and both of them completely sober. Dean isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or cry, but he knows that his damn heart is trying to beat clear of his ribcage, and he’s pretty sure that Castiel can see the unease that must be showing in his eyes.

“That’s a little heavy, you know. We’ve been fighting for a year. You fucking ditched me. This is supposed to be make-up sex – hot, dirty, tearing of clothes –”

“Dean –”

“I mean, Christ, Cas,” and if Dean’s voice breaks, he’s going to damn well deny it to himself, and pray that Cas does the same. “What the fuck do you even expect me to say to that?”

“You don’t need to speak.”

“Then stop fucking talking at me and –”

“As you wish. Turn over.”

The full-body shudder that rattles through him at the dark rasp is enough to make Dean close his eyes, and he’s scrambling to his knees without any thought of dignity, thankful to get away from Castiel’s soul-searching stare for awhile. He concentrates on the feel of grass beneath his palms, digging his fingers into the dirt and trying to ignore how exposed he is, down on his hands and knees on the side of a cliff – 

But then Castiel is pressed against him, his solid body a comforting weight against the emotional landmines that want to send Dean reeling, and Dean arches back into the contact, skin heating everywhere they’re pressed together. When Castiel begins to drag bites along his neck, his cock pressed warm and hot against Dean’s ass, it takes all of Dean’s control to not wrap his fingers around himself.

“Cas, get on with – stop biting me!”

Dean tries halfheartedly to squirm away, but then Castiel’s lips have moved to his shoulder, and his cock throbs to painful levels of need as a slick tongue drags along the edges of Castiel’s hand print. The contact feels beyond filthy, and Dean distantly realizes that he’s almost humping the goddamn air, as agonizingly intense bolts of sensation streak from his shoulder to his toes, their bodies riding some obscene wave that they both seem perfectly in tune with.

“Would that I could have marked you under happier circumstances.”

“You seem to be doing – just damn fine, ah, with your fucking teeth – stop _licking_ me, I’m not a fucking cat, Cas, come _on_ –”

“Alright, Dean – alright.”

It’s at about that point that Dean gives up on thinking, because damp fingers – fucking _angels_ – are circling around the entrance to his body, while Castiel keeps pressing kisses against his back, and Dean suddenly feels like he’s about to fly apart. He hasn’t done this since Castiel left – never found the strength to go out and try to fuck away Castiel’s memory with the rough hands of a stranger in some godforsaken men’s room – and he feels his body arch into the contact, even as his heart seems to climb into his throat.

“Dean? Is this –”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

He can hear the unwanted shake in his voice, but it makes Castiel stop asking for permission, and when a single finger slowly slides past muscles that haven’t been touched like this in far too long, Dean feels the aching burn clear to his toes. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and digs his fingers into the ground, breath coming shorter and shorter as Castiel finally gets into the swing of things, carefully twisting his finger in ways that light up every inch of Dean’s nervous system.

“Alright?”

Dean barely manages an uneven nod, his attention focused on not whining like a horny teenager, as his body tries to take Castiel’s finger faster than is probably wise. Dean concentrates on breathing, as one finger gradually becomes two, all while Castiel is biting and licking his way across Dean’s back, and Dean would be fucking embarrassed by Castiel’s sentimentality, if he wasn’t aching with each slow drag of that clever tongue, feeling each touch clear to his chest and his cock. 

Dean has just about lost his mind when Castiel finally takes some pity on him, and curls his fingers upwards, pressing gently against his prostate and dragging a gasping groan from Dean’s chest. It feels like streaks of fire, and Dean’s vision clouds a little as Castiel slowly rubs his sanity away, stroking his prostate before sliding his fingers in an out again, and by the time Castiel is going for finger number three, Dean has his legs spread so wide he distantly thinks he should be embarrassed.

“So beautiful.”

Castiel’s voice always goes straight to Dean’s cock, but when it’s dropped to a new register of obscene, and the words are laced with such undeniable reverence, it’s enough to make Dean clench down and push back harder, even as his stomach twists in circles at the endearment.

“You’re such a sap, ah, dammit, Cas, you – should shut up with that shit, I’m not fucking –”

“You are beautiful, Dean – especially like this. Now stop arguing, and remember to breathe.”

“Don’t flatter your –”

His breath catches in his lungs as finger number three slides in, slowly dragging against his prostate, and Dean hears himself whimper when Castiel spreads his fingers slightly, Dean’s muscles protesting the dull burn. He’s just about to start cursing at Castiel again when there’s a gentle lick at the bottom of his spine, a final twist to the angel’s fingers that leaves Dean gasping again, and then the angel’s touch is almost completely done, and all Dean can think of his how goddamn empty he suddenly is.

“Cas,” he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut, “It’s been a goddamn year, you bastard. You’d better get this show moving, or –”

“Agreed.” 

There’s a catch to Castiel’s voice, and Dean tries to imagine what he looks like to Cas – down on his hands and knees with his body stretched and slick, aching from months of not even a finger, and craving Castiel’s touch. Just the thought is enough to make Dean’s skin flush with some dangerous mixture of need and embarrassment, but when Castiel turns him over again, and Dean catches sight of the heat in Castiel’s eyes, it somehow makes all the vulnerability worth it.

“Alright?”

“If you ask one more time –”

He closes his eyes when Castiel gathers his legs up, and slides them around his waist, leaving Dean more open then he’s felt in longer than he cares to remember. When Castiel carefully nudges his way into the opening to his body, a slow and steady slide that forces the air from Dean’s throat, Dean slams his eyes shut and pulls Castiel’s mouth down towards his, unable to look at the angel after months of believing they were over.

“I am not going anywhere, Dean.” 

Castiel’s voice is wrecked against his lips, for all of his earlier control over the situation, and Dean rasps out another groan as Castiel pushes himself all the way into Dean’s body. It hurts, but it’s a burn that he’s been craving for over a year, and when Castiel pauses to give him time to adjust, Dean kisses him a little harder and bucks his body upwards.

“Dean – Dean –”

Where other people would be cursing, calling on god or babbling profanities, Castiel has always made do with just his name, and it’s the headiest thing Dean has felt in awhile.

“Come on, Cas, stop stalling, I won’t break, just fuck –”

Dean’s eyes slide shut as Castiel starts up a rhythm that’s just shy of too much, making a home for himself in Dean’s body the way he’s already done in Dean’s life, reminding Dean’s body of who exactly it belongs too. Everything is too good to last, this feeling of skin on skin after so long without, the sensation of Castiel’s cock pressed deep inside of him – 

“There, there,” and Dean can’t even care that his voice is a yelp, because Castiel just found an angle that has him seeing stars, the steady thrusts rubbing against his prostate with dizzying accuracy. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, fuck, don’t stop –”

“I do not believe I could,” Castiel gasps, his expression something that looks close to pain, and Dean’s fingers fly down to wrap around his own cock, feeling that familiar sensation of bliss bubbling up inside of his body. “Dean, I have missed this, missed you, so very much –”

“You’d better shut the fuck up, or I’m gonna start crying all over you.”

His voice is almost gone, his body rocking back and forth from the force of someone much more powerful than him, and though Dean is going for strained humour, the point of it must make its way through to Castiel, because Castiel just nods and kisses him again. Dean doesn't know how long they stay like this, but somewhere in between the punishing rhythm and the feel of Castiel’s tongue, the feel of his own fingers clenched tight around himself, Dean also feels the hand print on his skin begin to burn, and he realizes that Castiel is balancing himself by wrapping long fingers against the mark on his his shoulder.

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean manages to croak, and then he’s coming all over both of them, his vision going white as Castiel continues to move inside him, and warmth spreads in between them. His eyes are watering from the intensity of it, as Castiel’s mouth never leaves his, kissing him through his climax, and catching Dean’s groans on his own tongue.

“Dean – can I –”

Dean hopes the noise he makes can be considered consent, because he can’t feel his limbs or make his tongue work, and then he cries out as Castiel thrusts a little harder, just a few more times, and finally tears his mouth away from Dean’s. Castiel is making pained noises into Dean’s shoulder as heat streaks through Dean’s insides, and Dean’s just barely begun to make sense of the world again when a hard body is collapsing against him, and warm arms are wrapped around him and pulling him in tight against Castiel, who’s clinging to him as though afraid they’re both going to float away.

“C-cas?”

His voice is a disaster, and when Castiel only nods hard against his shoulder, sweaty face pressed into the curve of Dean’s neck, Dean swallows hard and tries to blink the moisture out of his eyes. After a few moments of utter contentment, he hesitantly raises a hand to Castiel’s hair and slides his fingers through the damp strands, a smile curling across his lips as Castiel leans into the touch, his entire body reeking of exhaustion. 

“Cas, you okay?”

There’s silence for a long moment, and then Castiel’s lips are back on his, the contact gentle and almost careful, and Dean stops trying to ask questions, his chest aching at the sudden awareness that this is real, and that he might not have to do everything alone anymore. 

He and Castiel may not have a perfect relationship, and they may have shit that they’re still going to have to work through, and there’s still a fucking civil war and the threat of Purgatory and the terror that is the Great Wall Of Sam – 

“I promise to be here for you from now on.”

Dean swallows hard against the sudden itch in his throat, because Castiel is staring down at him with big blue eyes and an expression of such affection that Dean can barely stand to look at it. “Stop reading my damn mind.”

“Then stop thinking so loud.”

Castiel sounds exhausted and hollowed out as he drops his face back to Dean's neck, his voice vulnerable in a way Dean hasn’t heard since Castiel was human, so Dean just tightens his grip around Castiel and closes his eyes again, wanting this moment to never end. When he feels Castiel wiggling around slightly, and long fingers curl into their rightful place against Dean’s shoulder, Dean squeezes his eyes tighter, presses a kiss into Castiel’s temple, and thinks that no matter how things end, he’s never going to let go of this angel again.


End file.
